


My Pen is the Barrel of the Gun (And It Fires)

by chargedfear



Category: Muse
Genre: Other, Suicide, dom is mentioned but never named idk, mentions of self harm, this is sad and hella triggering, wow so cheery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargedfear/pseuds/chargedfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You left us far behind, so we all discard our souls and blaze through your skies. So unafraid to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Pen is the Barrel of the Gun (And It Fires)

**Author's Note:**

> co-written with ellie (@tropicalbellamy)
> 
> we worked on this one quite a bit and i've had it saved for longer, but here it is. it's really sad i guess, and really triggering but i'm pretty proud of it. it was so lovely writing with ellie, ily<3

Unconsciously, he thumbs the bandage around his wrist, pulling the soft gauze between thumb and forefinger and gently stroking it between them. His eyes trace the red gashes on his forearms, fault lines on the pale skin and he thinks. His arms are carved, silvery scars lacing with angry scratches and deeper cuts, almost welded into his previously untainted skin. He flicks at the bandage and relishes in the jolt of pain which makes his whole body tremble.

He can see nothing but flashes of grey, but Matthew no longer trusts himself. The constant paranoia that pierces Matthew’s thoughts burns, sears, it hurts until his heart is throbbing in his mouth and his breath is in shallow gasps, falling on dead ears. He has contorted his own innocent brain to think dangerous thoughts of death and destruction, like a jester of darkness. But this time, the clown in his head took the tricks and games too far, and pushed Matthew over the edge.

Someone outside his door is speaking. Matthew cannot hear the words, cannot place the voice, but his name echoes in his ears. The words are hushed and low, laced with apathy, calm and collected and he knows, he knows he should stop listening because each syllable is like a needle into his skin, each uncaring drone another pinprick of blood on his sleeve.

Lies, lies, lies.

If anything, Matthew knows that words can build walls but they're fragile and they will always fall. Eventually words won't be enough and that is why everything falls. Promises never deliver, because they're just words. Words build rules, lead lives, but what is built of words can be deconstructed and warped until it's just letters. Just letters. Just letters.

Matthew doesn't trust words anymore.

Letters are beautiful. They make music.

They don't have to form the words which they use to stab him with, they can create universes, swirling galaxies. They can push the stars into his vision, nebulas into his broken and twisted mind.

He drags his nails along the skin of the back of his hand until he draws blood, beads of scarlett seeping through the raw skin and he hums. He doesn't think in words anymore; his thoughts are melodies and tunes, sombre and flat, bursting into life at each scratch. Softly there's a vocalist, singing, screaming, but the words become noise, blends with his hum and ceases to exists, adding to the tune of his thought.

Matthew muses what it would be like if he listened to the singing and the tune leaps and rises, soft peaks and gentle, crooning lows. His heartbeat becomes the bass drum, rhythm pounding in his mind and he notices the tempo increasing, increasing, increasing. He doesn't notice that his nails are tearing into his skin or that his humming is growing louder, louder, louder, just to drown out the words that the voice is singing.

His voice.

He hums. He hums. He hums.

And for the first time in months, and the last time in his life, Matthew cries. 

He composes a symphony in his mind to drown out his own trembling sobs. The song is different this time, the tune bending and contorting with each breath he takes. And as the breaths become heavier, the harder they are to keep up, until his beautiful song chokes him and his laboured gasps slow.

Death twists in his vision, clogs his heart, seeps through his veins and clouds his mind until all he sees, all he hears, all he tastes, all he smells, all he feels is death. The symphony gets louder and louder, more twisted and out of tune with each tear which falls from his tired and weary eyes. His heart throbs in his head and the blood oozes from between his fingers and the stars slip into his mind. Swirling constellations blot out his irises, soft patches of hot, white light burning out the shadows, blinding white taking hold of the edges of his vision. He latches onto the pain because it's the only thing that is still real and he pulls with all his might, restricting his chest and clenching his fists and and pressuring against the wounds that he carved himself; that he shouldn't have but the flow doesn't stop.

His whole body convulses, vomit rising in his throat, foaming around his mouth, stomach churning. The pain blurs his thoughts until all he hears is a haunting scream, piercingly loud, inhuman, cutting through his brain like the blade, bawling his worn-out name.

There's a weight on his chest, the ghosting of lips against his cheekbone, a voice whispering in his ear, familiar. But then he's slipping, falling, music rising, rising.

The crescendo dies as his heartbeat falters once, twice and all that is left is a single piano loop, cold and familiar and settled.

_*************_  
 _You left us far behind_  
 _So we all discard our souls_  
 _And blaze through your skies_  
 _So unafraid to die_  
 _'Cause I was born to destroy you_  
 _And I am growing by the hour_  
 _And I'm getting strong in every way, yeah, yeah_  
 _You led me on, you led me on, you..._

_**************_


End file.
